


Outnumbered and Outgunned (Dr. Bradley and Molly)

by Astroblaze



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Injury, Gen, Guerrilla Medicine, Gunshot Wounds, Injury Recovery, Medical Examination, Minor Surgery, Modern Fantasy, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28568895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astroblaze/pseuds/Astroblaze
Summary: After a disastrous encounter with a vengeful band of gunslingers out for his blood, nomadic swordsman Molly Renfield meets senior physician Jonathon Bradley while seeking help at a local tavern.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Medshots by Astroblaze





	Outnumbered and Outgunned (Dr. Bradley and Molly)

By the time Molly reached the tavern, he was struggling to control the urge to limp, legs as bruised and battered as the rest of him protesting even the slightest application of his weight. He could feel the marks swelling black and blue under his olive-toned skin, though fortunately his clothes did well enough to keep his vulnerable state discreet if he could just manage the pain enough not to express it in his posture.

The young swordsman paused briefly on the landing to organize himself, adjusting his jacket, the long, weathered scarf whose deep indigo dye provided the one splash of color in his simple wardrobe, and the sheathed katana belted to his right hip, and shrugging the strap of his black leather satchel higher on his left shoulder. He started to reach back to tighten the loop of elastic keeping back his dreads, but winced and gave up when bruised muscles twinged in protest, returning his hand to his burning right shoulder as he nudged the door open with his left.

The spacious, warmly lit bar hummed with the active but relaxed energy that had drawn the nomadic warrior to the tavern in the first place. Regulars, hailing of all ages and species but all weathered and tough from lives spent outdoors, lounged around the circular wooden tables engaged in conversation over ale and homely meals prepared from scratch by the innkeeper and his companionable servers. Of course, every individual in the room was armed—a vast assortment, both visible and hidden, of firearms, crossbows, melee weapons bladed and blunt, and all sorts of other, more unusual constructions—but even in his weakened state, Molly’s warily alert scan of the room as he approached his usual table in the shaded corner near the door returned no sense of personal threat.

Hanging his satchel on a corner of the chair, he cautiously lowered himself into the seat, gingerly laying his right arm in his lap, youthful features momentarily contorting at the insistent complaints of his wounded body. After more awkward one-handed fumbling than he would have preferred, he managed to retrieve the thermos from his satchel, uncork it, and fill the cap with the thick, dull green beverage. Dark, indigo-tinted eyes continued to scan the room as he quietly sipped on his herbal drink.

A well-known bearded figure emerged from behind the bar counter, wiping his hands on the foodstained apron tied around his ample waist. Molly watched as he meandered throughout the room, pausing at each table to add his gruff, resonant voice to their conversations. The innkeeper had initially been chilly at best toward Molly, clearly unsettled by his silent, mysterious presence, but after the incident with that rowdy, disruptive gang a few months back, his attitude had evidently shifted toward appreciative respect; though the pair of them still hadn’t so much as exchanged a word of greeting, he now understood Molly’s intentions and had no further reason to beware the swordsman. And now, Molly needed to break the politely companionable silence between them.

As the innkeeper gradually wandered nearer to Molly’s secluded corner, the swordsman set his cup on the table and lifted his hand to catch the older man’s attention. It only took a sidelong glance for the keeper to notice and approach him, his bushy brow drawing together slightly over brown eyes bright with curiosity.

Reaching Molly’s table, the keeper leaned in, setting broad, calloused knuckles on the polished wooden surface. “Bit unlike ya, that,” he observed, bald head tilting to one side with one eyebrow quirked. “How can I help ya?”

Molly released a soft breath, biting back a grimace at the outcry of his bruised torso as he leaned toward the man. “Is there a doctor here? Or at least—” he gestured toward the right shoulder that he was taking great pains not to move— “someone who can help me remove these bullets?”

The keeper’s posture abruptly straightened at that, eyes wide. “I, uh, I’ll ask.”

“Thanks,” Molly murmured as he hurried away. Shifting back into a more restful position, he watched the man bustle about the room, calmly sipping his drink as he waited for the verdict.

* * *

Though the modest community into which he and his wife had settled so many years ago held frequent gatherings, Jonathon Bradley much preferred the hardy tavern on the very edge of town when he was in the mood for some company. Sure, the regulars tended to err on the side of coarse and occasionally rude, but their rough livelihoods offered much more interesting stories, tales that reminded him of his own active but bygone youth. Besides, it was far more frequently the travelers who needed his help.

Though so understated as to be overlooked by the rest of the present crowd, his watchful eyes had caught the movement of the front entrance as it admitted a lone, olive-skinned figure carrying little more than a meager satchel and a single sheathed sword. His unusual appearance identified him as one of a certain culture of naturalistic nomad warriors common in the region, his long black hair coiled into rope-like dreads and earth-hued clothing resembling a Terran ninja. His slow, shuffling gait, tinged with the hint of a restrained limp, drew the doctor’s attention immediately, lips drawing tight in a concerned frown.

As he observed the slight figure, even from halfway across the commons, the bloodstains marring his jacket, the way that he favored and shielded his right shoulder, the delicate caution with which he eased into his chosen seat, all spoke volumes to the experienced healer, and unlike the stories he was presently privy to, this one was not favorable in the slightest. The innkeeper evidently agreed with this analysis, given the alarmed urgency in his pace as he left the young man after a brief exchange. Detecting a new sense of purpose in his movements as he walked the tables, Dr. Bradley set aside his drink and watched closely, poised on the edge of his seat with mild gray eyes sharply focused behind the lenses of his glasses.

His intuition was soon proven correct when the innkeeper stepped over to the adjacent table and through the buzz of the room Dr. Bradley overheard: “Are any of you doctors?”

He stood, taking the strap of his messenger bag back onto his shoulder. “I am. Gentleman in the corner, right?”

The innkeeper turned to him, blinking in surprise. “That’s the one.”

That was all the sign that he needed. Before any further words could be exchanged, the healer was already gone, crossing the room with a brisk, authoritative stride.

* * *

Molly lifted his head as the unfamiliar man who had responded so quickly to the innkeeper pulled out a chair from the table and seated himself beside Molly, dark eyes studying the older man from clean-cut, age-lined features to casually well-dressed frame.

The man set his bag against the chair leg and turned his spectacled gaze to Molly, eyes alert and serious. “I’m Jonathon Bradley. I saw you come in and overheard the keeper mention you need a doctor.”

The young samurai nodded, swallowing the last of his drink and setting aside the cup. “Molly Renfield. I’ve been shot, among other things.”

Dr. Bradley lifted his head in acknowledgment and shifted forward in his seat, attention flicking from Molly’s shoulder to his eyes. “May I?”

Understanding, Molly indicated his consent and leaned back as the healer stood, stepping over beside him. Gentle hands loosened the weathered scarf from his neck and drew the collar of his jacket away from his shoulder, exposing the blood-soaked bandaging hastily applied to the muscled joint. Dr. Bradley tilted his head slightly, focused completely on the region as his fingers gently probed the bandaged area and around. Molly jumped when his careful exploration located the jagged entry point, a pained gasp hissing between gritted teeth.

Dr. Bradley hummed, pursing his lips as he met Molly’s gaze again. “Do you mind if we go somewhere more private so I can get a better look at this?”

“That’s alright,” Molly affirmed.

He gingerly tugged the collar of his jacket close around his neck again as Dr. Bradley stepped away to speak with the innkeeper, who had wandered nearby to watch from a respectful but concerned distance. In a moment, the doctor had returned to Molly’s side, collecting and shouldering their combined belongings. “The good man’s got a room for us. Easy there, I’ve gotcha,” he directed, guiding Molly to his feet with supporting hands under his uninjured shoulder and arm.

Following the open, strut-separated hall along the right-hand wall of the tavern, the pair soon crossed under a sturdy arch into the low light of the first-floor lodging, turning into a long, narrow hall pocked with doors on either side, the nearest of which Dr. Bradley led Molly through.

While Molly leaned against the bare wall to catch his breath, Dr. Bradley shut the door, reducing the low din of the commons beyond to a faint, muffled murmur, and set about preparing the modest quarters. He laid Molly’s scarf, sheathed katana, and satchel in a wicker chair set against the far wall, but set his own bag against a leg of the table set by the head of the plainly clad cot. After turning down the woolen comforter, he spread an old towel procured from his bag over the off-white linens.

Here he paused to return to Molly, attentive hands leading the samurai to the bedside. Molly let his arms relax as the doctor carefully removed his jacket, which he laid over the back of the wicker chair while Molly eased himself down to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping his right arm tucked into his chest.

Dr. Bradley brought the second chair with him when he returned to Molly’s side, setting it by the table. Shrugging off his own jacket, he hung it across the back of the chair and rolled up the sleeves of his button-down.

“Have you already taken a painkiller?” he asked as he knelt by his bag, flipping the covering flap completely behind it to open wide access to his full kit. “You were drinking something earlier.”

Molly shook his head. “That was just to keep my strength up.”

A nod indicated the doctor’s understanding as he drew a small thermos from an inner pocket. Though about equal in volume to a shot glass, the cap that he offered Molly was barely half-full with a mostly clear liquid. “Drink this, then. I’m going to finish setting up and start examining your injuries. Careful: it might make you a bit dizzy.”

The substance left a bitter tang in the back of Molly’s throat as he obediently swallowed it, quickly progressing to a numbing buzz that seemed to envelop his body. Molly found himself breathing a small sigh as the burning pain in his shoulder and the percussive aches of his entire battered frame gradually faded into a faint, distant discomfort. Setting the cup on the table, he quietly watched the healer’s movements.

Dr. Bradley, meanwhile, had laid out a small cloth over the side table and started arraying tools neatly upon it: scalpels and tweezers, bandage rolls and gauze, a flashlight, and a few other small instruments. Finally he laid a stethoscope around his neck and turned to Molly.

With a hand supporting Molly’s injured arm to avoid twisting the shoulder as much as possible, he helped the younger man remove his tank top, one arm at a time, laying bare both the intricate arrangement of runes embedded in black tribalistic markings that curled and branched across his chest and torso, and the extensive bruising that intersected them. The doctor released a low whistle at the ugly shades of near-black purple, blue, and brown that swelled under his olive-hued skin.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they...” he hummed, tracing the edge of a particularly nasty patch. “Though, perhaps bringing a sword to a gunfight was not the wisest move?”

“They hardly left me much choice in the matter,” Molly noted wryly. “Regardless, I’ve fought a number of gunmen in my time and this has never happened. I still easily outmaneuvered my attackers. Just...” He pursed his lips. “There were eight of them.”

Dr. Bradley stopped short, eyebrows rising at the young man. “’Eight’? Good God, what did you do to get their attention?”

“I embarrassed their friend who mistook me for an easy target.” When Dr. Bradley gave him a skeptical look over the rim of his glasses, he elaborated, “Ignoring him was not an option. Besides, I am both personally and duty-bound to have a low tolerance for predators.”

The doctor quirked his head in a conceding gesture and stood, setting aside Molly’s sandals and carefully guiding him to lie down along the bed. For a moment, his wounds remembered that they were supposed to hurt, making Molly grit his teeth and clutch the doctor’s arm with surprising strength for his stature.

“Relax, I’ve got you,” Dr. Bradley calmly reassured him, gently coaxing his wounded arm to stretch out long at his side.

Tilting Molly’s head back to better access his neck, he pressed two fingers to the side of his throat, counting his pulse on his wristwatch—a bit elevated, but he was dealing with a great deal of blood-loss and nerves, so that was to be expected.

“Your runescape looks fantastic, by the way,” he observed as he snapped on a pair of gloves, prompting a quiet ‘thank you’ from the swordsman.

As he gently loosened and cut away the bandages, the newly freed puncture punched just below the bone of Molly’s shoulder immediately started bleeding again. He pressed a gauze pad to the wound as he retrieved the flashlight and tweezers from the table, then after using the pad to clean around the hole, he eased the tweezers into the wound. Letting his head fall away from the doctor’s workspace, Molly closed his eyes and breathed, resisting the urge to flinch at the cold pressure of the instrument under his skin. Before long, the searching end closed around the hard, rocky knot of the round, deliberately drawing it straight out to land with a clatter on the waiting tray.

“How are you doing so far?” Dr. Bradley checked as he secured a clean gauze pad over the puncture.

“I’m alright,” Molly sighed. “Just a bit lightheaded.”

Dr. Bradley pursed his lips sympathetically. “I believe that. You’ve lost a lot of blood. That being said, you should make a smooth recovery.” He inclined his head toward the elaborate markings decorating the young man’s chest. “Those healing runes you’re wearing will certainly help.”

Molly nodded in agreement. “That’s why I got them.”

With the doctor’s guidance, he adjusted his posture to lie on his stomach, allowing his access to the other two shot-wounds. Dr. Bradley easily removed the round from his side in the same way, but examination of the puncture over his shoulderblade revealed that the shot there had ricocheted off of the bone, penetrating deeper into his back.

“This one isn’t a straight shot,” he warned Molly, applying numbing cream over the lump of the embedded round. “I’m going to have to cut your back open a bit to get it out. Just try to relax.”

While he waited for the cream to take effect, he prepared the scalpel and bandages, then wiped away the remaining cream and set the blade to Molly’s skin. It penetrated easily under his expert guidance, leaving a tiny incision from which the tweezers readily removed the round.

Adhesive closures easily dealt with the cut, but he paused before moving on, frowning suspiciously at the discolored shoulderblade. Even for having been shot, the area had struck him as unusually tender especially for his patient’s evidently high pain tolerance, the slightest nudge drawing an involuntary flinch. Probing fingers pressed into the bone and Molly recoiled from his hand, biting back a yelp, making the doctor withdraw immediately.

“Yep, that is a fractured scapula,” he observed, pursing his lips sympathetically. “Not a full break, but I can feel a distinct weakness in the bone. Must’ve been from the shot that ricocheted: at close range, that much force could crack bone easily.”

Taking great care with the fracture, he guided Molly to sit on the edge of the bed again and wound a roll of bandages around his shoulder, securing it with a few loops under the opposite arm.

“You’ve remained remarkably calm throughout this whole ordeal,” he noted as he fastened down the ends of the bandaging and set aside his gloves. “I’m impressed. Most people would panic a bit more when faced with this much pain.”

Molly quirked his head in a shoulder-less shrug. “I’ve trained intensively to keep my head at such a time. If I had allowed myself to panic, I would be dead already.”

The doctor bobbed his head with a conceding hum. “Fair.” Gray eyes scanned the young swordsman from head to foot, searching for any more anomalies. “Do you have any other injuries I should look at? Did you take any blows to the head at all?”

Molly shook his head. “I don’t believe so.”

“How about your legs? You were limping when you walked in.”

Molly shrugged again. “Only bruised. They focused on my torso.”

“Likely,” Dr. Bradley agreed, “but would you mind if I checked, just to be certain?”

“Alright.”

At the doctor’s guidance, he leaned forward, tucking his chin into his chest. “Tell me if anything hurts,” the healer instructed, running his fingers through Molly’s dreads lightly probing his scalp. “No lumps or bruises, and your mental function seems normal...” he murmured, half to himself.

Directing Molly to sit straight again, he unlooped the stethoscope from his neck. “Since you took such a hard beating to your upper body, I’d like to ensure you haven’t suffered any organ damage,” he explained, clipping the instrument into his ears as he stood. “Deep breaths, please.”

While Molly breathed, Dr. Bradley pressed the disc to his back, cycling through points on his lungs to inspect his respiration as he watched the young swordsman’s face for signs of pain. Though externally black and blue, internal sounds registered clean and clear, absent of anomalies that would represent a more serious condition.

“Excellent. Now breathe normally.” The doctor transferred the chestpiece to just below the samurai’s left collarbone, making his rounds across Molly’s chest as he listened intently to the young man’s heart. This, too, was strong and steady, beating with sure regularity.

Once he was satisfied with the sound of Molly’s heart, he briefly returned the instrument to his neck to lay the young man onto his back, then continued his examination with his abdomen. Like heart and lungs, bowel sounds returned healthy and whole.

Returning the stethoscope to his neck, the doctor then examined him manually, palpating his abdomen to explore the shape of his organs. Molly winced when he hit a tender spot where a bruise had delayed to form, but otherwise showed no indication of internal injury.

His patient’s legs drew his attention next. Loosening the belts securing his pants under his knees, he pushed the light fabric up to Molly’s hips and rolled down his dark stockings to bare his muscular legs. His thighs were as riddled with bruises as the rest of him, but the doctor’s examination found no bleeding and the bone felt strong under his hands.

“Good, very good,” Dr. Bradley murmured, retrieving the gloves and a second tube of cream, intended for recovery from blunt trauma, from the table. Gloved hands gently massaged the cream into Molly’s bruises.

Dr. Bradley sat back for a moment, surveying his handiwork and smiling to himself as he stripped the gloves from his hands. Though still visibly wounded—that would take a while to wear off—Molly seemed restful, muscles relaxed and breath easy. His condition had certainly improved dramatically.

“Anything else?” he checked, collecting his tools on the side-table.

Molly rolled his head toward him, the corners of his mouth rising in a soft smile. “You’re very skilled in your field, doctor.”

Dr. Bradley ducked his head, a smile breaking onto his own face. “Thank you.”

Molly let his head fall back to center, eyes drifting shut with a sigh. “Now I’ll rest here a little while, give myself time to recover my strength before I head out again.”

“Great. Take it easy with that shoulder, alright? You’d be wise to use your scarf as a sling for a couple weeks until it’s healed.” Molly nodded. “Contact me if you need anything.”

Dr. Bradley helped him adjust his pants and socks back into place, though Molly remained bare-chested, opting not to bother with negotiating his shirt around his shoulder. After drawing the bedspread up to his chest, he began to clean and stow away his kit while Molly settled into the cot.

With all instruments in their proper places, he cinched tight the buckled straps that held his bag closed and stood, pulling his jacket close about him before shouldering the pack. The wicker chair returned to the corner where its mate still held Molly’s few belongings.

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, Dr. Bradley looked back over the room, ensuring everything was in order before his gaze finally settled on his patient. As he had previously observed, Molly’s still form displayed a relaxation not possible for one still crippled by pain. His wounded right arm lay tucked into his side, the off-white bandaging wrapped around his shoulder stark against dark skin and darker ink, while his left hand rested lightly atop the blanket, over his abdomen. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even cycle of breath under the covers, eyes closed seeming on the verge of sleep already, exhausted as he was.

Smiling to himself, the doctor stepped out, quietly drawing the door shut behind him. The innkeeper met him in the hall as he approached the dining area, brow knit tightly together and stocky frame tense. “How is he?”

“He’s a mess, but he’ll be fine,” Dr. Bradley assured him. “Just let him sleep.”

Followed by the keeper, he strode into the buzz of the tavern, head held high.


End file.
